


Audition

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Gen, Gore, Horror, Movie References
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-26
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-10-24 02:33:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10732344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: "What are you using all these props for?"-In which William Murderface buys a space to re-enact some of his favorite films, and left to his own devices, slowly falls into his own artistic madness.





	Audition

"Alright, we got you this big room." Charles led Murderface into his personal room. "Has all the props you asked for. But, ah, what do you... need this for? Are you filming a music video in here? It was quite expensive, I'd like to know what--"

"Shuddup Charlesch."

"Murderface." God, he was picking up that tone again. "This cost us thousands, I'd like to know what you're using it for."

"Isch perschonal! Fuckin' mind your own buschinessch!"

"...Right."

He was already examining the big closet in the back. God, they had everything. Beds and props and doo-dads. Murderface grinned, peeling through the stuff. "We got everything on your list, exactly the way you wanted it."

"Begone, I need schome privaschy."

Charles blinked, slightly taken aback.

"Alright. Be down in time for dinner."

The CFO left, allowing Murderface to clean up the big, empty room. So vast and large and pale. He examined it closely, trying to figure out exactly where to place each and every single thing, where it had to go, which angle, which way it was facing. The two couches and lamps were in place, and he set the scene for his brand new...

Movie re-enactment studio.

Everyone knew Murderface loved re-enactments. He had online friends who would all join in a civil war re-enactment once per year during the summer. But this? This was all for him. Every role, played by William Murderface. Every line, read by William Murderface. With a bit of camerawork he could recreate cult classics with nobody but William Murderface in every place, like some kind of amazing one-man play.

He pulled over a few of the cameras, standing them up on tripods all over the room at different angles. The costumes were all hung up, which meant it was time to begin.

-

"What time isch it?"

Pause.

He shifted to the side, adjusting his hair, shifting it more towards the side. Get into character. Peter. Tom. Beavis. Fatty. Think dropping eggs, think golf, think violence. Click. He peered at his watch, pressing a white-gloved hand to his watch. "Nine PM."

Click. Back to the other side. Change character. Paul. Jerry. Butthead.

"By nine tomorrow morning, all three of you will be kaput."

Great line read. Click. 

He slipped out of the white polo and little shorts, placing the pale gloves on a table. The dress he got for Anna's part was near perfect. He cracked his knuckles, slipping into it with the necklace and the jewelry. Fluffed out his hair for good measure.

"Makeup."

He scuttled to the prop room, sitting down next to a brightly-lit mirror and nabbing a tube of lipstick. Bright red. Pursing his lips out for a moment, he painted them as cleanly as he could, which to be fair, was still not very. It got stuck in his mustache. He twitched his lip for a moment, turning his head a few angles just to see if the coloring looked right. It was only one shot, but catching the emotion was paramount to the mood of this movie.

Adjusting a bit of the contouring below his eyes, he stood up and returned to the couch on the opposite side, flopping down. Now he had to look sad. Really fucking sad. What was the saddest thing he could think of? The gears in his mind began turning. He was a failure as a bassist, right? He couldn't play. Nobody liked him. He'd be single and untouched forever. His only love in life would be his right hand and a tissue. He was fat and stupid. He was abrasive and cruel. He was mean to hide his insecurities. He wasn't good for anything, he was replaceable. Hell, Skwisgaar always went over his tracks anyway! Unbelievable! How could...

There it was. He flicked the camera on before his tears dried, silently sobbing. Poor Anna. Poor, fat, untalented Anna.

He allowed the shot to linger for a few seconds before turning the camera off. That must've been an amazing take. He grinned, salt dripping into his half-open mouth. Goddamnit, though, he was still crying. Maybe he needed to take a break. He laid down on the couch, skirt slightly pulling around his chubby thighs, and rested for a bit.

-

Aligning the big mannequins was surprisingly difficult. His ass pressed flush against the crotch of one of them. This one would be a complicated shot, so over the past few hours he'd essentially had to build an elaborate set of Rube Goldberg machines to make things work out.

He tugged on a string softly, hands cuffed to the sides of the metal-barred bed. A little plastic ball rolled into a cup and down a few pathways, before dropping a soft toy on a mannequin's finger that pressed "record". Another string he pulled with his toes, causing the figure behind him to move in the average hip-thrusting sex motion thanks to a combination of a raising platform and a unicycle that he cobbled together with gorilla tape. Wet mascara painted his face. After a few seconds, he tugged another string, attached to an internal wiring mechanism inside the mannequin that allowed it to lower his fist. It didn't hit very hard, but he still reacted, yowling as any good actor should.

He pulled the second string back down, raising the hand back up. Then the string on the left was released, causing the left hand to land. A bit harder this time. He whimpered, open-mouthed, body flailing against the mechanical, awkward humping. A few more. Whap! Down went the right hand. 

With his pinkie, Murderface clicked a button under the bed, triggering a mechanism that allowed a plastic hand to rise up with a fake machete. Adjusting the positioning using the complex web of strings he'd created, almost like a puppeteer, the mannequin grabbed the toy weapon.

Slowly. Slowly. The build-up had to be gradual. This was, after all, a very serious and dramatic scene. The hand slowly rose. Remaining in character, he stared at the blade in horror, seeing its shiny edge, realizing it was the end of the line. He adjusted the arm's positioning as best he could, so the foam blade could reach his neck. The humping action was hitting its peak, at that moment, so he let go. The blade came falling down, and on its end, the blood capsules spurted as they hit Murderface's throat.

Rise once more.

It allowed the fake gore to splatter, covering his bare body.

Another.

It was painting him red, now, like a canvas.

He rolled his head down, pretending to be dead. And with the first string, he dropped another ball, ending the recording. Perfect. With one finger he ended the motion of his "acting partner", allowing it to flop over in what most people would call post-orgasmic exhaustion. 

His hands jittered in the cuffs, and it was only then that he realized it might be a problem breaking free. (Eventually, he managed to wedge them open with his teeth and get cleaned up. After all, there were tons more scenes he needed to get to.)

-

Trying to re-film a Gaspar Noe movie was a challenge in itself. But luckily, Murderface was headstrong. So he built a camera-sized rollercoaster, how fun! Complete with twists and turns to get just the angles he needed. He pressed record and pushed it down the first length of track, running down the dimly-lit series of fake hallways in time for it to hit the first roadblock. Reaching the first point, he heard the camera tap on the block.

"Isch the Tenia here?"

The dummy didn't reply, of course, because it wasn't a real person. He stamped his feet. The machine continued as he jabbed a few buttons, causing the block to lower and the camera to once again gain momentum. He coughed. He wasn't used to running.

"Do you know schomeone called the Tenia?"

Another silent response. "Fuck!" He continued, camera hot on his heels. The crowds of leather-clad BDSM mannequins were getting harder to navigate through, but he was managing, swearing and cursing beneath his breath. He nearly puked when he stopped at the next person. "The Tenia? Isch- isch the Tenia here?" Nothing.

And then he fell.

Hitting the ground with a harsh clatter, feeling hot blood well up in his nose and mouth. Fuck. Shit. He fucked it up. He nabbed the camera from the coaster track, stepping off-set. Dammit, he couldn't do Irreversible with a bloody nose! That wasn't anywhere, ANYWHERE in the script! He needed a work-around. His body plopped down on the floor, face buried in his meaty hands. He was a disappointment to directors everywhere.

He needed an idea.

Terry from Last House wore a mask, right?

That could work.

He turned his eyes to his prop closet. Did he tell Charles to get one of those weird masks? Dammit, he didn't, did he. And the more he thought about waiting to continue filming, the more he realized how lame it was that he was spending his life re-enacting cult classic horror films and humping mannequins.

-

The stage was set. The first officer, _poekhavshij,_ is on the wayside. The second officer, _bratishka,_ was on a downward spiral. Below him was a bloody corpse. He found himself in the nude, with blood pounding through his veins.

He knew how the scene went. He'd seen this movie hundreds of times, and had the script memorized in English and in Russian. And yet the idea of mounting a mannequin covered in fake blood seemed kind of weird. And... pretty gay. He whined, suddenly getting cold feet. It was just a movie, sure, but if anyone got their hands on it he'd be mocked and probably kicked out of Dethklok for good. His body was shaking and he felt lightheaded. 

He laid down. 

Goddamnit. 

The mannequin moved towards him. (Okay, he grabbed onto it.) It took him into a cold, plastic-y embrace. He held on like a little baby koala with no mother. This was off-script, off-book. Wrong. But he wasn't recording, so it was fine. As long as nobody walked inside. 

"Schorry I covered you in blood." 

No reply, because mannequins don't talk. 

His eyelids flickered. He had no clue what time it was. He'd been in the studio for... a long, long time, forgotten to eat and drink and all that jazz. He was sleepy... his eyes closed. 

"Firscht offischer, be quiet, I'm goin' to schleep." 

He held on, falling into the throes of slumber. Naked, on the floor, all alone in his prison cell with the first officer and the body. And tomorrow he'd wake up and be forced to clean the toilets again, and that'd be his only respite from the madness. 


End file.
